“A mule? A MULE?”

  
It’s… Six or seven minutes ago. So 7:30 pm. My bartender is painstakingly making a Bloody Mary, the most hated of cocktails, particularly at night. The server who placed the order comes to the bar and blanches. 

“Oh… shit. Shit. That was supposed to be a Mule.”

The bartender started, as if he’d brushed into a hot stove. “A Mule? A MULE?”

“I’m, I’m sorry, man,” said the server. His grief was sincere. 

“A Mule. Goddammit…” The bartender swiveled and fixed me with a steely glare. “HEY! Put this on the Internet! NOW!”

And so here it is. 

[Also, I got the mis-made Bloody. Not bad.]